


too bad (but it’s the life you lead)

by jessicagoddamnjones



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Ending, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Platonic Cuddling, Tony Stark Feels, Whump, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 00:23:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17498120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessicagoddamnjones/pseuds/jessicagoddamnjones
Summary: “Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”Peter nodded.“Jesus, kid—“ he stopped and spun around, placing his hands on Peter’s shoulders. ”Would you please just talk to me? I—I know that what happened is scary. Believe me, I almost shit my pants, but you’re safe now. You’re with me. Do you really think I’d let anything happen to you?”I think you don’t have a choice, Peter thought.  “No,” he said.





	too bad (but it’s the life you lead)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [onesp1cyboi (fukmylyf)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fukmylyf/gifts).



_“Is Subject 28594 prepped?”_

_“Subject 28594 prepped. Are the doctors ready to go?”_

_”Confirmed, the doctors are ready to go.”_

_”Status on Operation: Chicane?”_

_”Operation: Chicane is a go. Permission to begin the operation?”_

_”Granted.”_

* * *

Oh, god. Oh, _god_. Peter gasped for air. His clothes . . . his _hands_ . . . what had he done?

He stumbled back, knees going weak. He was  _soaked_  in blood. Who’s blood was it? How had he gotten it? Where were they now?

His throat constricted, stomach wailing for him to purge his breakfast. 

The brick wall of the alley he had woken up in was cold. It felt like it was tilting behind him, about to roll him onto the street. Two bloody handprints were on the wall opposite him, a tribute to his lost memory. 

How had he gotten there?

He wasn’t wearing his Spider-suit. Did that mean someone had taken it? Had there been an accident? A _Spider-Man_ related accident?

His head hurt.

Peter shakily wiped his hands off on his pants, leaving streaks of red behind—streaks of red on red. It was definitely blood. He could smell it—hell, he could practically taste it.

What was he supposed to do?

Looking around, Peter saw that he recognized the alley. It was only a few blocks down from the Avenger’s tower. He came there often to change into his suit before entering, not wanting the team to know his identity just yet. It was more secluded than most alleys, so he was less likely to get spotted. 

Yet, looking further, he didn’t see his backpack. And his clothes were covered in the blood, not _just_ his hands, which meant that whatever had happened had happened outside of his patrol.

A small whimper broke through the dam in his throat. He was . . . he was scared. Peter had no recollection of anything past that morning, his head hurt like a bitch, and he was covered in _someone else’s blood_. 

He couldn’t stay in the alley forever. Someone was bound to call the cops on the teen who looked like he walked right out of Freddie Kruger’s wet dream. 

But at the same time, he couldn’t go home. Not looking like this. Not without knowing what had happened. The last time he came home to May covered in blood that wasn’t his . . . 

 _Don’t think about that_ , he told himself. _Focus. Where can you go?_

The answer was as obvious as a multi-billion dollar tower in the center of New York. 

_Mr. Stark can help. He’ll know what to do._

Peter pushed himself off the ground. Small, slow movements would have to do it for him. If he went any faster he would throw up. 

Since casually strolling down the street wasn’t an option, he patted his pockets for his phone.  Thank fuck, it was still there. 

It was morbidly hilarious, trying to unlock it. There was so much blood on his hands that it didn’t even recognize his thumbprint. His fingers slipped uselessly on the screen, staining it. The teen groaned and rubbed it on his shoulder—one of the only spots still dry. Peter did the same to his thumb until the screen unlocked and he could call Mr. Stark. 

His thumb hovered over the call button. Hesitation froze his nerves. What if he didn’t answer? What if he didn’t want to come? What if he was horrified by what Peter had done?

 _You can’t live your life based on what-if’s, kid_ , Mr. Stark had told him once. Granted, his mentor then told him a thirty minute story of the time he hot-wired his principal’s car and drove it into a pool filled with styrofoam peanuts, but the lesson was still the same. 

The phone rang—once, twice, three times, oh god he wasn’t going to answer—his head was fucking pounding—

“Hello?”

For a moment, Peter was so overcome with relief that he couldn’t speak. 

“Hello? Parker? Everything alright? Jesus, did you butt dial me again?”

The teen closed his eyes and slumped against the bricks. He wanted to cry, but . . . but there was no time. “Mr. Stark,” he croaked. “Howdy.”

He seemed to realize something was wrong just from the sound of his voice, bless his heart. Mr. Stark sounded more alert when he asked, “Hey, kiddo. You okay? Why’re you calling me, shouldn’t you be at school right now?”

School. Right. It was . . . Thursday? His phone said it was around one in the afternoon. “Um, yeah, I guess. Can—I, um . . . I think something happened.” His throat slowly closed like a boa constrictor killing its prey. “I think I did something. Something bad.” His voice broke, no longer raspy, but now wet and desperate and sad.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Where are you, I’ll come get you. What happened?” There was the sound of metal crashing to the ground, then quick footsteps. 

Peter sniffed. He didn’t want to wipe at his face, didn’t want to dirty it with blood. The tears flowed freely down his cheeks. “I don’t know. I don’t—I don’t know what happened, Mr. Stark, I just woke up in this fucking alleyway and—and I’m covered in blood and it’s not mine and—I think I might have hurt someone. I think I might have hurt someone.” He repeated the last part in a whisper, barely daring to believe it himself. 

“What alleyway? Peter, _where are you?_ ” Mr. Stark sounded stern. He never sounded stern with Peter. That was new.

“The—the alleyway close to the tower. Um, the one I change in a lot? I—I don’t know how I got here. Mr. Stark, what if I killed someone?”

Through the phone, he could hear the man suck in a breath like he had just gotten punched. “You didn’t kill anyone, Pete,” he said quickly. Too quickly. He didn’t even think about it. 

 _You don’t know all the facts!_ He wanted to scream. _You can’t see the blood!_ “How do you know, though? How can you say I didn’t?” Peter brought his bloody knees to his chest and rested his forehead on them, trying to control his breathing. His head pulsed louder and louder with every beat of his heart. 

“Uh, because I’ve _met_ you? Don’t worry, Pete, we’re gonna figure everything out, everything is gonna be fine. I’m on my way right now. I need to know, though, are you hurt? Do you have any injuries at all?” 

When he opened his mouth to try and tell him about his head hurting, it gave off such a strong wave of pain that he gasped and dropped the phone. Peter tried to scream—but his throat wasn’t working right. It was like when he used to have asthma attacks, before the spider bite. The only sound he could produce was a faint wheezing noise. 

His teeth clacked together uselessly when he tried to stutter out _Tony_. 

The pain was so immense, so unrelenting, so undiluted in its absoluteness that it completely consumed Peter. It covered every square inch of him and burned in every cell he had. It was like being crushed and ripped apart all at once—it was agony. Black spots popped in front of his eyes. Every thought eddied out of his head and—

* * *

_”Is_ _the subject stable?”  
_

_”Subject 28594 stable.”_

_”How’s the implant going?”_

_”Like a dream, sir.”_

_”Make sure the anesthetic doesn’t wear off. If he wakes up, we’re all screwed.”_

_”Anesthetic is good for another two hours.”_

* * *

When Peter woke up again, he was in the back of a car. He jolted up, fists swinging, stomach roiling, lungs burning, _where was he?_

”Peter, Peter!” Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark was there. Mr. Stark was—was driving, actually. 

The man twisted in his seat, keeping one hand on the wheel, trying to reach him. He grabbed Peter’s elbow and yanked him closer, trying to make eye contact. “Calm _down_ ,” he ordered. 

Normally, his voice was balm for Peter’s anxiety. He had talked him off the edge of a million different panic attacks a million different times. But now, it was rather upsetting. Mainly because he had somehow gotten from the alleyway into a car and was now pulling into the underground parking garage of the Avenger’s tower without even being conscious for it. How had he slept through that? “I—I can’t—Mr. Stark, I can’t remember.”

Glancing away briefly, he pulled into a parking spot and shut the car off. Mr. Stark got out of the driver’s seat and went around to crawl into the back of the car with Peter, who flinched away from him and curled up against the door. “I know. I know, buddy, you can’t remember anything, don’t worry. We’ll help you.”

”We? No, no, no we, nobody else can—no one can see me, I don’t—“ Peter shook his head frantically, choking on his words. 

Mr. Stark held up his hands. “Don’t worry, hey, _stop_ , calm down. No one else has to know about this. Trust me, I keep secrets like a champ, this’ll just be a you-and-me thing, alright?”

Peter considered him for a second, then nodded. It was barely more than a jerk of his head. 

He scooted closer, rubbing Peter’s calf soothingly despite the blood dried on his pants. “Come on, we have to get you inside, alright? We can take my private elevator, it’ll take us straight to my floor. Pepper’s on a business trip, so it’ll just be you and me, okay? Can you come with me?”

Peter nodded his jerky nod again. But he still didn’t move. Mr. Stark got out and bent down to stick his head in. “You need a hand?”

He shook his head. It was like his cells had all been frozen, so he couldn’t move. He was _scared_ of moving. What if Mr. Stark saw all the blood again and decided it was too much of a hassle?

The man in question held out a hand, palm up, and said, “Come on, kid. We gotta get you in a shower. You have some clothes in your room here, right?”

Nod. Slowly, painfully slowly, Peter reached out and gripped Mr. Stark’s hand like it was a lifeline. He allowed himself to be tugged out of the car. On shaky legs, he walked alongside his mentor to the elevator waiting on the other side of the garage. 

Mr. Stark had to pause to allow the small camera built into the elevator doors to scan his eyes. It dinged happily and the doors opened. 

Inside, it was warm and golden and safe and _clean_. Too clean for Peter to be dirtying up with his mystery blood. 

“ _Hello, Mr. Stark, Peter. How are you?_ ” FRIDAY’s voice greeted them. 

”We’re fine, Fri. Just take us straight to the top, thanks.” Mr. Stark dropped Peter’s hand to rub his back in circular motions. 

Stupid, hot tears pushed at the back of Peter’s eyes. But he didn’t want to start crying again, so he just sniffed loudly and crossed his arms, staring at the floor. He bit the inside of his cheek. 

“You just hop right into a shower, Pete, don’t worry about anything else. I’ll get your clothes and put them outside of the bathroom for you to change into, alright? I think we can agree that you won’t want to hang onto these old rags, so I’ll just go ahead and throw them out, okay?” Mr. Stark plucked the collar of Peter’s shirt like it was merely covered in mud or dirt and not _fucking blood_. 

He was at once immensely thankful and completely overwhelmed with affection for the mechanic. If the situations were switched, he was certain that he wouldn’t be as calm as Mr. Stark was right now. He _definitely_ wouldn’t be able to talk to him like everything was fine and dandy. 

Peter swallowed the lump in his throat and whispered, “Okay.”

He wished he could say _thank you_ , but he couldn’t. He didn’t trust himself to not go hysterical if he tried to speak anything else. 

“Great!” Mr. Stark wrapped his arm around Peter’s shoulders and led him out of the elevator, down the hall. “Now, see, you’re getting lucky here. I’m gonna let you use my own personal shower—it’s got six jets and does _miracles_ for back pain. I designed it myself, actually. You’ll love it.”

He nodded. Didn’t look up from the floor as it changed from the spotless tile of the entryway to the shiny hardwood of the halls to the plush carpet of Mr. Stark’s bedroom. He merely allowed himself to be herded into the bathroom, where Mr. Stark left him after telling him to take all the time he needed. 

The shower really did have six jets. You could change the setting on each one to have a different temperature and water pressure. Peter set all of them to the strongest, hottest water he could handle before stripping and stepping in. 

He tried not to look down, but he had to watch the red swirl down the shower drain. If only to tell himself that it was finally off. 

Now that he had the privacy of the bathroom, and nobody would be able to hear him over the roar of the water, he allowed himself to try and remember what had happened. He got as far as leaving his apartment building before his head gave such a strong jolt of pain that he went lightheaded for a second. 

Peter placed a hand against the impeccable tile walls, wincing. Why—couldn’t—he— _remember?_

He gasped for breath as his vision blacked out.

* * *

_Red, flashing lights.  
_

_A wailing alarm._

_Strangers running around him, dressed in medical wear, shouting at each other. He could only make out bits and pieces through the screeching speakers._

_“Subject—nine-four is awake! Some—team, code gold.”_

_What did code gold mean?_

_A face appeared over his. A woman, with sweat staining her forehead and her green eyes wide with an almost sick fascination. “Dear god,” she breathed. Her breath brushed Peter’s face, and it smelled of lavender._

* * *

He threw up against the shower wall. 

That morning’s breakfast—toast, cereal and three glasses of orange juice—mixed with the water going down the drain. 

Peter retched and retched until there was nothing left to throw up, and then he retched some more. He spat out the tiny chunky bits of barf that always seemed to get stuck behind his teeth and used the shower water to rinse his mouth out. 

Red lights. People in medical wear. An alarm going crazy. 

Why, that was all the makings of a medical operation gone wrong. 

Did he have some sort of operation that morning? Was he missing his memory because of what happened in that room? 

And who was that woman?

Too many questions and not a single answer to be found—but at least the throbbing in his head had died down a bit. Maybe it only flared up when he tried to access the lost memories.

What a damn cliché.

Peter ran his hands through his hair and tried to untangle it with his fingers. He took deep, wheezing breaths, trying to slow his hearbeat. He looked around for some body wash and found a bottle. It smelled like Mr. Stark when he poured some into his hands, which was more comforting than he’d like to admit. 

He rubbed his hands together and set about lathering his body up, scrubbing with his knuckles in an attempt to get every last molecule of blood off down the drain.  

By the time he got out of the shower, his skin was pink and sensitive to touch. The combination of hot water, strong pressure, and his knuckle scrubbing had washed him raw. In a way, it felt cleansing. He felt cleaner, at least. Calmer. 

True to his word, Mr. Stark had left a change of clothes outside of the bathroom door. Peter hastily towered off and pulled them all on. He left the bathroom still rubbing the towel through his hair, searching for his mentor. 

“Mr. Stark?” He walked into the living room to see him sitting on the couch, fingers steepled, staring at the floor. A wave of shame broke over him—he looked so _stressed_. And it was his fault! Peter backed up a few steps. The towel hung from his hand limply, much like an inanimate object is prone to do. Clearing his throat, he quietly repeated his name. 

Mr. Stark jumped, looking towards him. Whatever made that searching look in his eyes  appear was satisfied for the moment, as it quickly vanished. He stood up and clapped his hands together. “All washed up? Great! Come on, you gotta get to the med-bay so we can see what’s up with that noggin of yours.”

His spine stiffened at the thought of going into a hospital room—the recovered memory was still at the forefront of his mind, if it was a memory at all and not some deuluded head injury dream trying to explain away his lost afternoon—but he didn’t want to cause any more inconvenience for him, so Peter nodded and shuffled after him silently. 

“You okay?” Mr. Stark asked. Probably suspicious as to why he wasn’t talking. 

Peter nodded. 

“Do you feel better, now that you have all that blood washed off?”

Peter nodded. 

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?”

Peter nodded. 

“Jesus, kid—“ he stopped and spun around, placing his hands on Peter’s shoulders. ”Would you please just talk to me? I—I know that what happened is scary. Believe me, I almost shit my pants, but you’re safe now. You’re with me. Do you really think I’d let anything happen to you?”

 _I think you don’t have a choice_ , Peter thought.  “No,” he said. He hesitantly grabbed Mr. Stark’s wrists, just to remind himself that he was truly there. “Sorry.”

Mr. Stark clicked his tongue and ruffled the teen’s hair. “None of this is your fault, Peter. I’m glad you called me. Come on, we have to get you checked out. I called in Bruce to help, is that alright? I figured, now that you’re not cosplaying as Carrie anymore, you wouldn’t mind that much. Besides, he’s probably seen worse.” His arm settled around Peter’s shoulders again, like it belonged there. He rubbed circles into the nape of his neck with his thumb. 

“That’s fine,” Peter murmured, tucking himself closer into Mr. Stark’s side. 

Turning the memory (dream?) over and over in his head like a stone, Peter barely noticed the elevator ride down to the med-bay, a floor that he was all-too-comfortable with. The familiar smell of bleach and anti-septics wrapped around the teen like a blanket. He heard Mr. Stark greeting Bruce over his head with a carefully constructed calm. 

He only tuned into the conversation when Bruce addressed him. Looking up, he found both Mr. Stark and the doctor staring at him expectantly. “What?” He asked dumbly, flushing. 

“I asked if you were okay with me doing an examination, maybe taking a few X-Rays?” Bruce repeated, eyes soft. 

Peter liked Bruce Banner. He was the only Avenger besides Mr. Stark who knew his secret identity—though, granted, he did only know because Peter got stabbed one night and needed to be patched up. He always let him hang around in the chem lab, too. He once looked over a paper he wrote for school and told him he had lots of promise for a future in bio-chemistry.

Not that Peter would ever betray Mr. Stark by not going into engineering, of course. But it was still kind of him to say. “That’s fine,” Peter said, following him down the halls to a secluded little examination room. 

Bruce sat down in a wheely-chair and gestured for Peter to sit on the bed in the middle of the room, which he did, the paper sheet crinkling beneath him. “I’m just going to ask a few questions first, alright?”

He nodded. 

Looking a tad bit uncomfortable, Bruce added, “I know this may seem embarrassing or private. If you’d like, it can be just us two.”

They both looked at Mr. Stark in unison. He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. A look of confusion twisted his features before he cleared his throat and said, “Of course, kid. If you want me gone, just say the word, it’s no big deal.”

A smile wormed its way onto Peter’s lips. “It’s fine. You don’t have to leave. Unless you have stuff to do, of course, I know you’re probably busy and all—“

”No, no, it’s nothing at all!” Mr. Stark insisted. “I _want_ to be here for you.”

”Well, just as long as you aren’t put out—“

”—In my own building? Please—“

”—Don’t wanna take up all your time—“

”—I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to be—“

”—You’ve already done so much for me—“

”—And I’m willing to do much more, if you just—“

Bruce cut in loudly. “Tony! To be able to examine Peter, he kind of has to be able to _answer_ my questions.”

They both muttered apologies and fell silent. Mr. Stark walked in a bit more to sit in a cushioned chair next to the bed. 

“Much appreciated. Now, Peter, do you have any immediate injuries we need to know about? Internal or external?”

He shook his head. “No. I’m not hurt at all. Except—“ Peter bit the inside of his cheek. The last time he tried to tell someone of his aching head, he passed out. But it was feeling better. The pain had died down to a slow throb. 

“Except?” Bruce prompted. 

“My head . . .” His voice dropped like the pain might be eavesdropping. “It hurts a lot.” Right as he said that, a burst of pain whacked him on the temples. Peter flinched into himself, thinking for a wild moment that maybe Mr. Stark had hit him, but that was ridiculous because Mr. Stark was sitting alert in his seat, asking Peter if he was alright and demanding to know why he didn’t tell him of his head earlier. 

Bruce shushed Mr. Stark and cautiously asked, “How long had it been hurting?”

The answer came through gritted teeth, “Hurts—to—talk—‘bout.”

”It hurts when you _talk_ about it?”

He nodded, eyes tightly shit. 

“That’s alright,” Bruce recovered, writing on his little notepad. “We’ll move on. Any other injuries?”

Peter shook his head. Almost as soon as he stopped talking about it, the pain receded like waves on the beach. 

“Good. Can you take me through your day? From when you first woke up to now, please?” Bruce leaned back in his seat, pencil poised to write. 

He puffed out his cheeks and nodded. “Uh, I woke up, had breakfast, left the apartment—“

”What time did you wake up?” Bruce interrupted. “And what did you eat?”

”Uh . . .” He stared blankly for a second before saying, “Around seven? It’s Thursday, right?”

”You don’t remember what day it is?” Mr. Stark asked, sounding horrified. 

Defensiveness curled Peter’s shoulders in. “It’s blurry,” he snapped. “I have a good _estimate_.”

Seeing his mistake, Mr. Stark held his hands up in surrender and said, “Sorry, sorry. I just didn’t realize that you were so out of it you didn’t know what _day_ it was. Excuse me for being worried about my protégé. How silly of me.”

Bruce threw a cotton ball at Mr. Stark. “It is Thursday,” he confirmed for Peter.

“Then I would’ve woken up at like, six-fifty or seven, to get ready for school.”

”And did you stay up late last night?”

”No later than I usually do. The suit automatically texts Aunt May and Mr. Stark if I use it past curfew, which is eleven on school nights. I was in bed by midnight.”

Mr. Stark spoke again. “If this whole situation is because you did something stupid on your patrol, I’m going to follow you on every single patrol you go on from now until one of us dies.”

”Mr. _Stark_ ,” he whined. “I didn’t do anything out of the ordinary last night!”

”Tony, could you wait until we know what’s wrong until you start threatening my patient?” Bruce raised an eyebrow at the engineer, who once again huffed an apology and slouched in his chair. “What did you have for breakfast, Peter?”

“Toast . . . cereal . . . like, two or three glasses of orange juice .  . . I think that’s it.” The pain in his head was now like a car engine: always there, but easily ignored. 

“That’s a lot of orange juice,” commented Mr. Stark. 

“I once saw you chug an entire galleon of milk because Steve was trying to make a bowl of cereal, shut up,” Bruce ordered. He had a two second staring match with Mr. Stark before the latter looked away and sulked. 

Peter snorted, filing away that little fact for future use (blackmail). 

Bruce wrote in his notepad and asked, “What happened after you left the apartment?”

”Um, that’s where my memory gets a bit spotty,” Peter confessed sheepishly. All at once, he was reminded of his situation. This wasn’t a regular doctor’s checkup—this was Peter waking up in an alleyway with no recollection of how he got there, and covered in blood that wasn’t his own. This was serious. This was . . . this sucked. 

What a mood killer. 

“That’s fine,” Bruce assured him, “Just tell me anything you can remember.”

He wrapped a loose string on the hem of his shirt around his index finger until it turned purple and shrugged. “I left the apartment. I had my backpack. I—I walked down the street . . . I dunno. Woke up in an alleyway. No backpack. Covered in blood.”

”What did you do when you woke up?”

He sensed Mr. Stark sitting up straighter; he hadn’t heard this part of the story yet. 

“I tried to remember what happened. It, uh, obviously didn’t work. I didn’t want to scare May, and she’s at work anyways, so I called Mr. Stark. I tried to tell him about my head hurting—“ a flare of pain, a warning shot at the feet of an intruder, “—but it hurt too much and I blacked out,” he hurriedly finished. “I woke up in the back of his car. Took a shower. Threw up in the shower. Now I’m here. Fascinating, I know.”

”Why didn’t you tell me you threw up?” Mr. Stark asked, looping one of his fingers through Peter’s belt loop. He frowned at him. “Do you feel sick?”

Shaking his head, Peter mumbled, “No. I just—I tried to remember something. And I think I did? But it didn’t last long, and I threw up after. It might have been a dream. I think I blacked out a little bit in there too.”

”You blacked out _twice?_ ” Mr. Stark asked. “Kid, why aren’t you telling me this stuff?”

”Tony, maybe now’s not the time,” Bruce suggested through gritted teeth. 

He looked pissed, but dropped it and leaned back in his chair, hands falling to his lap. 

“You said you might have dreamt something in the shower? What was it?”

Peter spoke slow, testing the waters. “There were red lights. They were flashing. And an alarm was going off. There were a bunch of people dressed like doctors running around, yelling at each other.”

Bruce gently interjected, “People _dressed_ like doctors or just doctors?”

His eyebrows came together. “A bunch of doctors, I guess. I couldn’t hear what they were saying though, just a little bit here and there.”

Both men stared at him expectantly. He stared back blankly before startling and exclaiming, “ _Oh_ , you want me to tell you what they were saying right?”

”Yes, Peter. We want to know what the doctors were saying,” sighed Bruce. 

Thinking hard, pushing gently at the brick wall in his head, Peter slowly said, “Something like . .  . Subject . . . ninety-four . . . woke up? And, uh, someone said something about a team, and a code gold. That’s really all I can remember. Oh! And—and there was this woman. I think I was strapped to a table, because she appeared over me like I was lying down. She had green eyes. I remember, she said ‘Dear god’, like she was horrified. And her breath .  . . her breath smelled like lavender. I think that’s what made me throw up, because I don’t like the smell of lavender at _all_.”

Mr. Stark and Bruce Banner exchanged knowing looks. Neither of them said anything to Peter. He grew more nervous at the seconds ticked past. “What is it? Why do you look like that?” He finally asked. 

The doctor placed his notepad on the counter and leaned forward, eyes solemn. “Peter, that doesn’t sound like a dream. That sounds like a cold, hard, memory.”

Peter’s hands curled around the edges of the hospital bed. 

“Which means that sometime between you leaving your apartment building and you calling Tony, somebody took you, probably forcefully, strapped you to a table, and had a bunch of doctors doing something to you.” Bruce looked regretful.

Mr. Stark looked pissed. 

Peter threw up. 

* * *

“It’s fine; it happens all the time.” Bruce smiled calmly at Peter, who was turning himself red apologizing. 

Mr. Stark clapped him on the shoulder and shook him gently. “Wouldn’t be the first time someone threw up on Brucey-bear, kid. I’ve been there, done that at least ten times.”

”And I have the dry cleaning bills to prove it.”

”Bills which I covered, thank you very much. Anyways, doesn’t look like you had much left in there to throw up anyways, so we’re all good.” Mr. Stark’s voice had a forced calmness about it, but the firm—almost bruising—grip he had on Peter was telling enough. There was nothing calm about the superhero just then. 

It was true: there wasn’t anything left for him to throw up. He had just spat up bile, and some of it managed to get onto Bruce.

God, he wanted to jump off a bridge thinking about it.

Mr. Stark gently maneuvered the teen onto a bed—they had left the initial examination room and were now preparing to X-Ray him. Bruce excused himself to get the machine ready while Mr. Stark attempted to calm Peter down. 

“You okay?” He asked, brushing his hair out of his face. 

Peter nodded, fighting the urge to just rest his entire cheek on Mr. Stark’s lingering, protective hand. “I just wanna get it over with. I don’t know what I’m gonna tell Aunt May.”

Mr. Stark dismissed it with a flick of his wrist. “Don’t even worry about it. Let’s just make sure those fuckers didn’t put anything in you, and then we’ll figure out what to tell her. And if it ends up going overtime, I’ll tell her that you’re spending the night. Wouldn’t be the first time it happened. Hell, I might just keep you overnight for the hell of it.”

He smiled faintly, stomach twisting. “What . . . What happens if we don’t find them? The people who took me?” He asked in a whisper, eyes pleading with the man to understand what he was truly asking. 

_What if they did something to me that can’t be fixed?_

“We’ll find them,” he said firmly, not leaving any room for debate. “Now _I’m_ going to go behind that door, and _you’re_ going to get X-Rayed, and _we’re_ going to just roll with it from there, okay?”

Peter nodded. His throat clogged up for the umpteenth time that day. “‘Kay,” he agreed.

”’Atta boy.” Mr. Stark grinned and stood up from his crouch.

It wasn’t like Peter hadn’t been X-Rayed before. It was just that he didn’t quite like the idea of being on yet another hospital bed only an hour or two after he had been strapped down on another one. 

Still, he could hear Mr. Stark’s heartbeat behind the thick door. A bit faster than usual, but there. That in itself was a lullaby luring him into calmness. 

Peter breathed heavily through his nose. His hands were balled up into fists, and every inch of him was stiff, but he _refused_ to let the strangers who had dug around in his head control him. Control his _fears_. 

_In, out, in, out._

He could hear his own heartbeat beating—faster and faster with each second that carried him to The Second, faster than a helicopter’s blades, a hummingbird’s wings, a racer’s wheels—

Oh, he was gonna black out. 

Yeah, he was blacking out. 

* * *

_Hallways upon hallways upon hallways, all of them leading nowhere. The alarms, the lights, the identical doors, the pounding of shoes on metal staircases, it all echoed around his head like an empty house.  
_

_His head. Jesus, his head hurt like hell. It felt like he was getting smacked with a hammer nonstop._

_Peter groaned, using the walls to steady himself. His pale white hands were a stark contrast to the gray metal. Up ahead, he spotted something—a lump, a pile, a body?_

_A bleeding body._

* * *

A strangled scream escaped Peter’s throat. He rolled over, trying to get away from it, trying to get to _safety_ —

He hit the floor and started crawling. 

His head, his head, his goddamn head! There was no greater pain than this, decided the boy, no bigger punishment for a sin he didn’t remember committing. He wanted to throw up, he wanted to pass out, he wanted to stop crying, he wanted to die. 

“Peter! Peter!”

Strong hands, big hands, big strong hands gripped him by the shoulders and hauled him upright. He was propped against a body, encircled in someone’s arms, but it didn’t. Stop. The. Pain. 

He screamed. He shoved his face into the chest he was being held against and screamed so hard that he thought his vocal cords would snap. 

Burning—crushing—ripping—slamming—it all pummeled him all at once. His ears rang like church bells but the pain. Didn’t. Stop. 

He was squeezed tighter and tighter. Someone was yelling over his head. The realization that he wasn’t being _held_ , he was being _restrained_ made him scream more and try to push away the person holding him.

Names and faces escaped him. 

 _Memories_ escaped him. 

There was nothing but the pain the doctors had given to him. 

He blacked out. 

* * *

_The girl gasped for breath. Her brilliant hazel eyes searched the ceiling lights like there might be an avenging angel there. Her hair looked like spilled ink on the floor. And her blood was like a pair of wings spreading wider and wider beneath her body.  
_

_Peter dropped to his knees beside her, shaking. “No,” he whispered. “No. What—don’t worry. Don’t worry.” He placed his hands on the wound, pressed down as tightly as he dared._

_Her hand reached up, coming to a rest on Peter’s forearm. Her lips moved soundlessly. “Jeh . . . Jessica,” she rasped._

_“Jessica, is that your name? Hi, hi, my name’s Peter. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. I’ll . . . I’ll help you.” He smiled, trying not to cry._

_“Drew. Jessica . . . Drew.” She lifted her hand to tap her chest once with her index finger._

_He nodded. “Jessica Drew, it’s so nice to meet you. I’m Peter Parker. You’re gonna be just fine.”_

_His own words repeated themselves in his mind. They clogged his ears until it was the only thing he could hear, the only thing he could focus on, the only thing in the world that mattered._

_You’re gonna be just fine. You’re gonna be just fine. You’re gonna be just fine. You’re gonna be just fine you’re gonna be just fine you’re gonna be just fine you’regonnabejustfineyou’regonnabejustfine_

_You are going to be just fine, Jessica Drew_

* * *

When he came to, there was a small weight on his lap. 

He swallowed, looking around blearily. He wasn’t in the hospital wing. He wasn’t in his bedroom, either his apartment one or his tower one. 

When he looked down, he saw Mr. Stark’s head on his lap. It seemed he had moved a chair to be close to where Peter was resting near the edge of the bed, but had fallen asleep himself, using Peter as a pillow. 

Smiling faintly, he rested his hand on Mr. Stark’s cheek. His mentor rarely slept as deeply as he was now. He didn’t want to wake him. 

Peter’s head fell against the pillow. It smelt so strongly of Mr. Stark that it had to be his. So he was in Mr. Stark’s room. Where was Bruce?

He absentmindedly tapped his fingers in a pattern on the man’s cheek while he mused over his newest memory. 

Jessica. Jessica Drew. Jessica Drew, with the hazel eyes and hair like spilled ink. 

That was _her_ blood on him when he woke up. 

And that was his promise he had broken. 

_You’re gonna be just fine._

His chest shook with the broken breath he took in. His eyelids weighed a thousand pounds, but he didn’t want to fall asleep. Every time he fell asleep, he remembered something. He didn’t like remembering things.

The pieces of the puzzle were slowly coming together:

Someone had taken Peter captive on his way to school. 

The someone who had taken him obviously worked for a group of people, people with a team of doctors. 

Those doctors started to operate on Peter, but for some reason some sort of alarm system went off during it, allowing him to escape. 

Apparently it also gave other captives a doorway to escape as well. That led to Jessica getting shot. That led to the blood on his clothes. 

However, how he lost his memory and wound up in the alleyway was still a mystery. 

It was . . . not calmer, but more manageable, now that he knew the gist of what had happened. At least he knew he hadn’t hurt anyone. 

He wondered what time it was. 

Like they were connected, Mr. Stark made a low noise in his throat. Peter snatched his hand back like it was on fire, not wanting Mr. Stark to catch him practically stroking his cheek. That would be weird.

The man sighed loudly before yawning and lifting his head from Peter’s thigh. “Kid?” He mumbled. His hand fumbled around until it landed on the boy’s lower leg. He squeezed it, sniffing. “You ‘wake?”

”Yeah,” Peter said. “What happened?”

Mr. Stark shook his head. “No . . . Don’t worry about that. Just sleep.”

”Can’t. Not tired.”

He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re lucky you’re cute, kid.”

Before he had time to question that, his mentor was standing up and walking around his truly massive bed, pulling back the covers as he went. 

“Alright, Pete, here’s the game plan: We’re gonna be mature about this and cuddle like two geniuses, because that’s what we are, until you fall asleep. Then when you wake up, we’re gonna look at the X-Rays and figure out what’s up with your head. Then we’re gonna call up your Aunt May and tell her what happened and hope she doesn’t kill any of us for not telling her sooner. Then we’re gonna figure out how to patch you up. Understand?”

He smiled faintly. “Understood.”

Mr. Stark nodded and crawled into the bed beside Peter. They had done this before, it was really only instinct for Peter to press his face into Mr. Stark’s chest; and for Mr. Stark to wrap his arms around Peter and start running his fingers through his hair with one hand. 

“Mr. Stark?”

”Yeah, kid?”

”What if you can’t fix me?”

”You aren’t broken. Don’t worry, Pete, go to sleep.”

So Peter did just that. 

And he didn’t have a single dream.

**Author's Note:**

> no editing we die like men
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this shit!! Let me know if you did!!


End file.
